I DO STILL

Even though I am having a blast on my extended work hiatus, I do still sometimes, occasionally, more often in the last week, think about that whole career thing every now and then. Apparently, I have once again been bitten by the employment bug.

I have to admit, every now and again I do miss dressing up and wearing high heels. And then I remember that no matter how nice I look in my house, I will look a thousand times worse once I actually get to work and, as if I could forget, I am not actually able to wear shoes in Singapore. Sundresses and flip flops are definitely the better alternative.

But, ever since I edited a friend’s massive dissertation, I have been considering a jump back into the working world and a career in publishing. I like reading books and I like editing, so why not receive a paycheck in the process? I mean, if I am going to write a book, I should probably understand the industry, right? So I started researching positions and companies with offices in Singapore. The more I looked into editing positions, the more I realized there is a lot more to those jobs than just reading and reviewing books.

I have to admit, I am intrigued by the views on actual books vs. ebooks and which ebook products are outselling the others, how the libraries perform and how the number of publications is determined. I have even joined a book club in the last six months and really do enjoy the great reads and the discussions, even if a book is not on my top 10 list.

Tuesday night I had a book club meeting and was told afterward that my comments were spot on, truly insightful and welcomed, so yesterday I wondered if I could be paid to be a book reviewer. No luck on that front yet but I might keep trying.

Yesterday, the inherited ADD kicked in (have I mentioned that is in my blood?). While searching for publishing and reviewing opportunities, I got distracted by the giant salaries listed on corporate communications postings, so I submitted a couple applications. But, have no fear, I am back to researching publishing.

I did inquire about one position on the marketing end. I think I could handle managing a book tour for someone with my event and media background. Whatever I do, I need to keep it interesting.

LOOKIN’ GOOD

Not too long after we moved into our current apartment, Paul declared that we would be investing in a housekeeper. With the low cost of a professional cleaner comparing to the high frustration that Paul felt cleaning the floors every single day, the decision practically made itself.

We have been blessed with a delightful, yet very quiet, Singaporean woman with two children now both out of secondary school. She gets my house cleaner that I ever could – at least in the visible areas. So far, after more than a year together, we only have a few minor issues and then one very large issue.

The minor issues: she has not really grasped the concept of cleaning under things. A few days ago, I showered with my earrings in my ears. While getting ready, I bent my body over in front of me, raised my hands to the back of my head and began to undo the towel that covered my wet hair. In the process I clipped my earring back and heard it clink on the ground.

Not seeing it on the ground in front of me, I got on my knees and examined the dresser underworld. After I obtained a flashlight for a better view, I saw caked dust and a few dust balls, along with a line of tiny beads I had spilled months ago. I did my best to clean them up but just assumed my housekeeper would have captured any I did not see at the time. I did not see my earring back.

I did end up finding the back and my ear was once again adorned with a shiny object, but I was surprised by the amount of dust that had been collecting for so long.

Her cleaning is amazing – she cleans things I never would think to clean. Paul and I were constantly amazed at how well she cleaned the drain blocker in our kitchen sink. We are constantly clogging it and are never able to fully clean the gunk. Then I found her secret – she used our vegetable scrubber to clean out the nasty food particles (cooked and uncooked) that had somehow stuck to the fine wire grid. She also used that same vegetable scrubber to clean other kitchen areas. I bought a new vegetable scrubber.

Paul a few months ago asked our housekeeper to start washing our sheets on a weekly basis. When she makes the bed, the top sheet never faces the proper direction. It used to annoy me but I got over it. Every now and then we strip the top two layers and correct everything. Today, however, Paul freaked out. We prepared for our nap, I was drifting off to sleepyland and then, without warning, Paul yelled out, “What the…What’s going on here?” And then he ripped the sheets off the bed and calmly put it back together. I barely moved.

Little things. Now here’s the really big thing – the thing that almost makes me regret hiring a housekeeper in the first place. I did say almost.

I have lost all desire to clean. Now, I am not saying that I ever loved cleaning. In fact, my mother used to yell at me to clean one bathroom and my grandmother once pulled me by hair to make me get up and do the dishes. But there are times when I just really enjoy a good few hours on a Saturday or a day off to just get everything darn clean and maybe reorganize a little.

It is so bad that I this week realized I do not even clean things that would drive me insane in my old house. For instance, we have a black granite shelf in our bathroom that sits just above the sink. I keep my toothbrush, our toothpaste and my facewash on the ledge. Though I do my best to dry off everything after I use it, my toothbrush bottom tends to leave little white ovals on the shiny, black ledge.

By Wednesday, there are enough marks on the ledge to annoy me. By Thursday, I can’t stand to look at the marks anymore, but here’s the issue: my brain goes directly to, “The housekeeper comes tomorrow,” and I leave it for her to clean 97 times out of 100. This is a problem.

I this week decided that my housekeeper likely thinks I am incapable of cleaning due to the messes that I tend to leave her. I am embarrassed. I vow to do my wifely duty and show her that I can clean and that I do still appreciate everything she does. 

NO MATTER

Everyone has moments in their life when one specific event causes a major life change. No matter the size of the event, whether ginormous or miniscule, a life is affected and that event sets in motion a new lifestyle. That event is an awakening.

My most recent awakening happened within the last two weeks. I was running some errands, meeting a friend or two, I honestly do not remember everything I was doing. I do remember, however, the feeling I had in the moment that I realized I needed a change.

I was walking and I suddenly realized my thighs were rubbing together under my dress. I was so hot that they were sticking. The more I walked, the more my thighs began to hurt. What was this?! I am not an overweight person! Why is this happening?

By the time I got home, there was a bit of a rash on the insides of my thigh. That was it. Never in my life have my legs rubbed together, and never before had I experienced irritation like that. If there were a time in my life when I needed a workout, this was definitely the time.

An active child, my mother frequently criticized me for my lack of curves. Even through high school, I retained my skinny figure. “Size zero,” she would yell and later tell her friends. “I wasn’t born a size zero!”

I was a runner in high school and danced constantly. In college, I picked and chose when I wanted to work out but, without a car, I accomplished most of my workouts running from one end of campus to the other. I continued some dance the first two years and spent one season as a cheerleader. I worked out when I had time or had the urge. I specifically remember a point in a nutrition course when we students were required to measure the body fat percentages of our fellow classmates. (O.K, tangent: who thought that was a good idea?) My partner could not get the caliper to grab any skin on my thighs – the instructor had to come over and make a few attempts to pinch my skin (and hurt me) before finally grabbing enough to determine that I had practically no fat on my legs. I won’t lie – that was a pretty proud moment. And a bit painful.

Something happened in the seven or eight years since I graduated college, though. I became a career woman like my mother had always dreamed. I became a dedicated worker who was too exhausted to move when I got home and sometimes slept most of each free Saturday. Every now and then I would run.

I even had a gym membership for a few months AND – for one month – I actively used that membership. I awoke in January at 5:30 to my husband telling me how crazy I was for going to the gym at 5:30 in January. I was at the gym by 6, in the locker room by 7 and was at my desk around 7:30 where my breakfast awaited me. Working out with a personal trainer and separately on my own time, that was the month when I was in the best shape of my life. Then I got lazy again. It happens.

Work piled up, I was working more weekends and I had several excuses to keep me out of that gym. Then I moved to Singapore. Our complex does not have a gym and memberships are not worth either the commute or the services or facilities offered. So I began to run. I was pretty good at motivating myself. I ran in the park, I ran up and down the stairs, I ran around my neighborhood. And then….I got lazy again. And then my legs started rubbing together. So here we are.

Now I have gone back to running – and not just running. I am on a 5k training program that gives me set running plans, conditioning workouts and interval training. When I get done with my workout, I come home and work out some more, stretching, performing a mini yoga session and using a window seat in Paul’s office as a stepping block to tone my butt. My leg muscles are tight and, after my first 5k workout (literally a 5k walk/run), they felt like they weighed 1200 pounds and might have been made out of jello. This means that my 5k training program is working.

I am feeling better already. In seven weeks, I will be 30, and I will be lookin’ good!


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A CUP OF HOT CHOCOLATE

There are certain food and beverage items that represent true comfort. A cup of hot chocolate with foamy marshmallows, a cup of true New England clam chowder, mashed potatoes, apple pie – these are all American comfort foods.

Sometimes, a little taste of home is all one needs to feel just a little bit better and, after the week I have had, I definitely needed a little pick-me-up Friday (a.k.a. Funeral Day).

I started the day with Starbucks. Though I did not like coffee at all 10 years ago, I have grown to crave a latte and appreciate the feeling a good cup of coffee can create as it fills my entire body. Yes, a good latte can warm my soul. And I did. The rainy weather brought cool breezes – so cool in fact that my bare legs were chilly. I switched to sweatpants when I got home.

After a morning with the American women, I ran a couple of errands, not quite yet desiring food. When I go to the store, however, I had one thing on my mind – Velveeta shells and cheese. A box filled with 100 percent processed unhealthiness, it is an amazing form of comfort food that I just need sometimes.

As soon as I got home, I started the pot of boiling water. I dropped in the shells, salted the water and stirred around the beginnings of a little stomach pleaser. When the pasta was done, I dumped it into the colander and started squishing the gooey processed cheese pouch into the hot pot. Mix it all together and then you have lunch! Mmmmm. Processed cheesy goodness.

After a quick lunch and a race to make two kinds of Rice Krispies Treats (the cocoa kind and the standard), I headed over to Nicola’s for girls night in. I came armed with all the essentials: buttered popcorn, kettle corn, gummy bears, cereal treats and Red Vines. This, my friends, is how a movie is done.

The joy of the evening, and what I had most been looking forward to, was an authentic English meal cooked by Nicola’s mother-in-law. Until Friday night, my only experience with British foods came from a pub – not exactly authentic. My husband said it best at last weekend’s dinner with the Browns: “All of our British knowledge comes from you people and Top Gear.” Obviously, we do not know much.

I was so pleased to be invited over for a true English meal (though I may have invited myself over when I heard Clare had plans to visit). We started with a sampling of scones and jam, and I received a lesson on the proper pronunciation of the word, “scones.” If I were a (paraphrasing here) normal English person, I would say, “scahns.” If I were a (paraphrasing again) snoody woman from the north, I would stick up my nose, purse my lips and say, “scoons.” I replied with, “Well, I am American so I say, ‘scones.’”

However you prefer to pronounce them, they were great. In America, we call them biscuits, but that is a whole other discussion. I learned that the secret to a great top is an egg and milk wash, which makes the tops sweet and creates a glistening effect. I will steal this trick.

Dinner consisted of a starter salad with ham-wrapped asparagus on a bed of lettuce, drizzled with balsamic vinegar and a cottage pie made with beef and vegetables and covered with a mashed potato topping. I regret forgetting to take a photo. I should have taken a photo.

When I heard I would be consuming an English classic, I immediately Googled cottage pie. At the table I asked if the pie was made from beef and Clare confirmed my observation. I stated that I had read the pies could be made from beef, lamb or mutton but was quickly corrected. “No, that’s shepherd’s pie. That’s different.” Lesson learned.

After dinner we gathered in the living room to watch The Artist. Since we obviously had not yet had enough food, Clare came in with apple crisp and ice cream. And then we continued to pick at the junk food the rest of the evening. The best memories are made around some good old fashioned comfort foods, no matter the country of origin.

A BETTER NIGHT

I got the call around 10:30 this morning. The conversation on my end of the phone sounded like this:

“Hello?”…….”O.K.”….. ”O.K.”….. ”O.K.”….. ”O.K.”…..”Bye.”

I was fine until I looked at Paul. I had been preparing for this for the last week when I received a call that threw me against a wall and made my entire world stop.

It all started six weeks ago. I called my grandmother as I typically do on a weekly basis, just to check in and see how things are going. “There’s something going on with Mitsa,” she said, talking of her younger sister. Mildred, 83, lived across from my grandmother in a house next door to the unbelievably tiny house they in which they had both grown up alongside two parents and seven other children. We call her Mitsa because I am not sure anyone in their immediate family actually went by their birth name.

“What do you mean,” I asked.

“Well, it started on Monday. We were supposed to go to the store…” Let me save you the 15-minute introduction and just paraphrase with “Mitsa was confused. She didn’t seem right. When driving home, she ran the car into a tree and then asked, ‘What just happened?’”

She had been put on a heavy dose of a vitamin and everyone just assumed that was the reason. Then we learned the truth. At 83, my great aunt and neighbor since the age of 12 had been diagnosed with leukemia. Her white cell counts were over 100,000.

So, six weeks ago, we began the roller coaster ride. I hate roller coasters. The jerking, the differing speeds, the falling, the toll it takes on my body. Little did I know that the stomach-in-my-throat, fear and nauseated feeling of an actual roller coaster were nothing compared to the toll of the emotional kind.

In a span of five weeks I received the following calls:

• There’s something wrong with Mitsa. She hit a tree and she didn’t even know it. Must be the vitamin.
• Mitsa has leukemia. Her doctor said she can do a normal chemo treatment and hope for the best, partake in an aggressive chemo treatment that will likely kill her or do nothing and die within four to six weeks.
• We went to see a cancer specialist in Cleveland. He was great – we loved this guy. He was so up front and honest. He said this isn’t a death sentence and recommended a shot that she can give herself twice a day. He has elderly patients who are in remission and doing fine within a year. It sounds good.
• Mits is in the ICU. Apparently the hospital gave her something to which she was allergic and she went into cardiac arrest.
• No, just kidding – it wasn’t an allergic reaction. She had a stroke. She lost the ability to move her right arm and now she will not be able to give herself the shots. She is going to need around-the-clock care. No treatment yet.
• Now Mits is considering participating in a clinical trial.
• Hey, she’s doing pretty well. She should be transferred out of the cancer hospital and back to the local hospital to go over her treatment requirements. She should be there for about four weeks.
• Mitsa is on her way back to the Cleveland Clinic. I know she was only at the hospital for a few hours, but she started coughing up blood. She has a spot on her lung and might have lung cancer. I will keep you posted.
• Well, it’s pneumonia and, because of the spot on her lung, it might be tuberculosis, so they have her in isolation.
• No TB, it’s just pneumonia. She’s doing all right.

Then, last Wednesday, Paul and I were about halfway through dinner when the phone rang. “Mitsa can’t breathe. Ted got a call at 5:30 this morning. He’s on his way from Virginia. They are putting her on oxygen. She has stopped all treatment and she signed a DNR. It sounds like this will be her last day.”

I lost it. That was just not the call I was expecting. She was doing well. We were talking treatment. What happened?! I stopped eating and spent the rest of the night crying. I just kept thinking about what life would be like without Mits. I wasn’t ready.

Over the next five hours, I prepared myself for the call. Thursday was National Day but I was prepared to wake up, be depressed and watch hours and hours of Gilmore Girls while digging my face into the couch. I stayed up until 1 a.m. waiting for the call and then, I finally went to bed.

I left my phone on so that I would hear any notifications, whether text messages or e-mails telling me that she had passed. I woke up around 9 to nothing – no missed calls, no voice mails, no text messages. I waited an hour or so. Nothing. I called my mother and my grandmother twice each and no one was picking up. Maybe this was it.

Finally, I got through to my mother. She advised that Mits was a bit better, breathing better. I didn’t know how to take the news.

All night long I had prepared for the phone call that she had gone, but now it didn’t seem that I would get that call. Would she now get better? I didn’t know how to process the fact that she was not dead. I went back to the bedroom around 11 and attempted to nap. It wasn’t until the afternoon, after a chat with a friend when I confessed this, that I was able to return to my normal state.

From Thursday on, I prepared for the call. Every day. I increased my phone calls home from a few times a week to twice a day. I wore waterproof mascara in case I was either with friends or out somewhere, away from the comforts of my bathroom sink and a proper towel. I mostly cleared my schedule so that I could be near my home phone.

Then, this morning, I got the call. I didn’t feel much at the time. Yes, of course, it was sad to hear that Mits had died but I felt totally prepared for the news. I was fine until Paul gave me the look. “Well, that was the call,” I said. Then he came over to the couch from his chair and went for the hug. Of course I cried at that point. Before, I just had awkward smiles.

Instead of being depressed, my brain went into schedule mode. I had a plan to take a shower around 11 and head to the bank and the grocery store. So I got up, turned on the hot water heater and sat for a few minutes before getting ready. I again put on my waterproof mascara and headed out. I had a few mini cry sessions while getting ready, and on the way to the store, but I composed myself each time.

I guess it really didn’t hit me until I gave my grandmother a call to see how she was doing this morning (my evening). Now, at 87, she and her 79-year-old brother are the only two left.

Six weeks ago Mitsa was fine. Today, she is gone. Though I may not fully be impacted by the news right now, I am sure I will be when I go home later this year. When I won’t have the opportunity to sit around Mitsa’s kitchen table, drink coffee or hot chocolate and play endless games of Solitaire, when we won’t be at Mitsa’s eating Christmas dinner and loads of pie and cookies, when we won’t be exchanging gifts with the family, crowded in her living room. Where will we go now?

While last night was a hard night for many, it was also a better night knowing that Mitsa is finally at peace. So, tonight I had a cup of hot chocolate and I played a little Solitaire.

LAKU NOĆ

Good night. Paul and I had a good night last weekend. A week ago Saturday, we celebrated a special anniversary – at least I imagined that we would be celebrating. Apparently, Paul was not so much in a celebratory mood when I advised him why we were enjoying a very special date night.

On our way downtown, I decided that I had held my excitement too long and I just had to tell Paul. Somehow I had managed to go an entire week without telling him about the special date night I was planning, the gifts I had purchased and, of course, the reason for such celebration. “I’m excited,” I finally said, smiling from ear to ear. “This marks the 10^th anniversary of our first date!”

Paul stopped walking. He had a look of confusion, disgust and regret all over his face. “What?! Ten years? (long pause) Nooooooo… Really?! (deep sigh).” We made it across the street before he said, again, “Really? It’s been that long?”

Nuts. I ruined his life.

Luckily, his dismay subsided before we arrived at our destination – an Italian restaurant located on the marina with the most amazing view of the rehearsal show for Singapore’s National Day spectacular. The show is so big that participants rehearse months in advance and live shows including fighter jet flyovers and fireworks displays are rehearsed on location every Saturday night for at least a month prior. Luckily, our anniversary weekend just happened to fall on the evening of the final rehearsal, which meant we could see practically the entire show.

We were treated like VIPs when we arrived. Sidewalks and marina-front areas were blocked off with tall, yellow barriers that resembled cages or jail cell doors. We had to speak with three security personnel and have our names checked against a list on Suit Guy’s clipboard to be granted access to the area, and we were led down to the restaurant by one of the gatekeepers.

We sat at a table outdoors and, before we could order, we were greeted by three military helicopters flying a very large Singapore flag across the water. The weather was perfect – a cool 80 degrees and breezy as the sun slowly set. We got to see two types of military boat craft up close and were amazed as F-15s and F-16s flew over us no less than three times, maybe four. I could not believe how loud they were, and that sound just echoed off of all of the buildings in the surrounding business district.

We had a great meal that delightfully ended with the most amazing baby hot chocolate soufflé, accompanied by fresh fruit and my favorite ice cream. We watched the sun set. I cannot speak for Paul, but I certainly was thrilled every time the fighter jets made an appearance.

Paul eventually cheered up and just accepted the fact that I stole one-third of his life. He enjoyed the presents I gave him, including a set of tennis balls so that he can throw them at the walls in lieu of his wedding ring, which he lost – again – just days before our anniversary dinner. I told a friend I would have to give him his backup ring as a gift but he found his ring in time.

By the end of our date, just as on our first date, we enjoyed a spectacular fireworks show, first at our table and then later at a spot a bit down the waterfront. Because the barricades were up, there were just a few other people in the area. I could not have asked for a better night.

I AM SO LUCKY

Dear Mitsa,

In times like these, living on the other side of the world does not feel so fun. While I am over here taking walks in parks, having lunch with friends and making a mess of my kitchen, you are in a hospital bed likely wondering how to make the most of your day.

I know these last two months have been tough, and I wish there was something I could do to ease your pain and keep you entertained. After all, you spent so much time entertaining me the last 30 years, whether or not you know it.

You should know that Saturdays were my favorite day of the week. Every Saturday, family members piled around your kitchen table, sipping coffee, eating the goodies that Gran or Aunt Ada would bring, maybe arguing a little and definitely laughing a lot as we all picked up a deck and played our favorite Solitaire games. Paul’s mom still laughs at us for playing four separate card games around the same table.

You taught me how to play so many versions of Solitaire. And by “taught,” I mean you would tell me how the game was supposed to be played, show me as I captivatingly watched and then stick your nose, your opinion and even your hand into my game any time I missed a step or paused too long.

“No! Don’t flip that card. Move the seven over,” you would say. “Put that queen on that king over there!”

“Hey,” I would shoot back. “This is my game. You play your own.” 

“But you missed a card. You’re not going to win.”

“Well then I guess I will lose.”

Then you would huff and roll your eyes at me before again chiming in when I played an incorrect card. Obviously, you just wanted me to win and, the way I was playing, I was setting myself up for failure, which was not an option. Thinking about all of our great times around the table makes me laugh even now.

Though I am not able to be with you in person, I am calling every day, twice a day, for updates. Part of me wants to tell you to fight because I cannot imagine going home and not having you there. Your house is the center of family gatherings. Every day my grandmother joins you, her younger sister, for coffee and conversation. Every Saturday, the rest of the family joins the two of you for coffee, conversation and multiple games of Solitaire around your kitchen table. Every holiday for almost as long as I can remember has occurred at your house, and I do not want that to change.

Part of me, however, wants you to know it’s O.K. to go. Having leukemia, losing mobility due to a stroke and suffering from pneumonia is more than many people have to handle in a lifetime, let alone having all of these diagnoses within a few weeks. I know that one day in heaven is better than a thousand elsewhere, especially when elsewhere is a hospital where people come in and bug you at all hours of the day and night.

So whether you feel like fighting or resting, know that you have family all around the world who are right there with you, loving you, supporting you, wishing you peace in your last days – however numerous they may be. We are all so lucky to have had you in our lives. Laku noć. 

HAPPY

My whole life, people always told me that marriage was hard and that people really had to work at a marriage to keep it in tact. I grew up learning that marriage was all about compromise, all about sacrifice and all about equal partnership. No one ever said that marriage was easy. No one ever said that marriage brought forth amazing opportunities. No one – ever – told me marriage was fun.

Well, let me be the first to go on record and say that my marriage is easy and the most fun I have ever had. Not even running around in the biggest winter snow Middle Tennessee had ever seen while I was living there, making snowmen and even a snow lion with all the neighborhood kids, could compare to the fun associated with my marriage.

Paul and I make each other laugh like no one else can – and I remind him nearly every day that he is so lucky to have me because no one else on the planet would be able to put up with him and all of his quirks. He tells me when I am grumpy and, sometimes annoyingly, tries to immediately cheer me. He looks at me first thing in the morning and tells me that my hair is pretty…then he laughs hysterically because he is just so funny.

Instead of criticizing me, Paul has a great way of complimenting me when pointing out my faults. When I do something stupid, he tells me how well I did. When I say something stupid, he sarcastically tells me what a genius I am – and then, of course, he laughs. When I run our car through every pothole in the state of New Jersey, he tells me that my pothole-finding skills are amazing. When I write a blog post about how I should learn to swim and compete in the 2016 Olympic Games, he creates an appointment in our shared Google Calendars for the exact dates of the Rio Olympics with the caption, “Will she drown?” And, when I arrive home after a long day and say I need five minutes of touch time, stretching out on the couch with his arms wrapped around me and my head on his chest, before I begin dinner, he sets an alarm and orders me to the kitchen upon the sound of the buzzer.

I am so lucky.

I SHOULD BE

I am having a bit of a personal crisis. I am in a bit of a pickle trying to determine exactly what kind of person I really, truly am. My friends would tell you that I am kind, generous and a great listener. I have a good heart. But sometimes, usually just outside of an opening bus door, the good part disappears and the bee-atch takes over. I can’t help it – it’s like a superpower that fills my entire body in an instant.

Whether I am on my way to work, on my way home from work or enjoying a leisurely day, I am always patient when waiting for my bus. O.K., I am not always patient when waiting, but I do not step in front of people or bump into people when queuing to board as the bus approaches.

I have previously written about the speed of the oldest women on the island – that is their superpower. They are slow when walking and take baby steps but, when they approach a form of transportation, whether bus, train or escalator, they charge at lightening speed and mysteriously appear at the front of the line.

On a number of occasions, I have made my way to forming crowd. Sometimes I get lucky and the bus comes to a halt with the door positioned directly in my path. Other times I find myself on the outside of a circle a few meters away.

No matter how many steps it takes to get to the door, I know that someone will likely try to get in my way. This is when my nasty persona begins to come upon me. I am the next in line. I am inches away from the step. What the… What is that? I wonder as I see a stick-like thing out of the corner of my left eye. That stick thing happens to be a two- to three-foot umbrella that an auntie is using as a cane as she walks. She is literally trying to block me so that she can cut in front of me. Um…noooo. I move in and make my way up the steps.

Canes and umbrellas are popular walk block tools. Grocery bags and personal bags work well, but not as well as outstretched arms or bony elbows. Yes, it happens.

When personal items are not good enough weapons, the aunties will use…other people. Oh yes, other people.

On two occasions in the last month I have approached the bus steps only to have a grandma auntie use her outstretched arm to throw a toddler in my path. Shoving a kid at the curb is a very good way to get innocent bystanders to make way for the auntie but it did not work for me – mostly because I was mid step and I avoided the kid so that I didn’t kill him on my way down.

There are also middle-aged women who will throw the elderly aunties to the front so that they both can fight for a seat when they get inside.

So this upsets me. I want to be the good person that I know that I am but, at the same time, my anger and annoyance seem to weigh more. But I want to be good so I keep my calm and I don’t say anything.

Don’t just think the aunties do this – middle-aged men and young guys also like to break into my path and try to shove me out of the way. Sometimes I give them a look. They should know better.

When I see individuals sitting in an aisle seat, leaving the window seat vacant, sometimes I have half a mind to step over those people and take that window over any available aisle seat. They know that by sitting in the aisle, people are more likely to pass them and take another seat; they will not be cramped. They can put their bags on the window seat making it that much more unlikely that anyone will actually make them move their stuff just so someone else can have a seat. I want to be that person that says, “I know exactly what you are doing and I am going to sit here anyway. Haha.” But, because I am such a nice person, I usually suck up my frustration because I would rather not inconvenience anyone or hit them with anything and everything I am carrying.

So apparently on the outside I am a nice, quiet, polite individual but my insides just pack down the frustration. Lately I have been trying to put those evil thoughts and frustrations out of my mind. After all, these things can only annoy me if I allow them to do so. I decide what makes me angry and what makes me happy. And I choose to be happy.